


Maybe, just maybe, a little more Human

by the_toadlet



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Other, hh i rlly love grace and !!! she gets No fluff, its grace fluff, she likes to paint, so here we go, thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 18:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18184403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_toadlet/pseuds/the_toadlet
Summary: Grace watches all her children leave, and she realises- Reginald doesn't care what she does, so she paints! a Lot!((its like two n a half pages of grace fluff))





	Maybe, just maybe, a little more Human

Grace wasn’t sure when things really started to change, but it was most likely right after Ben died. Or, vanished, rather, seeing as nobody actually told Grace he was dead. She figured that out on her own(Diego, curled up in a ball on his bed, weeping quietly; Vanya’s violin sadder, more drawn out and painful. Tortured, even. Luther was more withdrawn, responding slower and speaking up less; Allison refused to smile; Klaus smelled of smoke more often than not, sneaking out into the night and returning in the very early hours of the morning; and Five, of course, was gone), but she thought they had healed- she hoped, actually, marvelling in the flaw in her code that let that happen. Maybe it wasn’t a flaw, but it certainly wasn’t put there by Reginald Hargreeves. 

So when Vanya left, she tried not to be too worried. She smiled at the rest of her(broken, broken) children, and served one less plate of eggs and bacon. Hold the orange juice. Klaus was next, vanishing one night and never returning. Her hope faltered, but her measured and perfect steps remained the same. Sixty-eight and a half steps from the kitchen to the head of the table, two steps between each chair, and six less because of the missing kids. She frowned, once, at her favourite painting, when she tallied up and found the six missing steps. 

Vanya, Klaus, and then Allison. Allison had the grace to say goodbye, standing at the table- where Vanya sat, Grace noticed, with a surge of sadness. Sadness was new, as well, which was interesting- and saying some very not nice things about Reginald. Grace was going to reprimand her for profanity, but she found she couldn’t bring herself to. Something like agreement about how foul the man was, maybe, but Grace frowned at Allison. Allison smiled wanly in return. Diego was the next to leave, in a blazing glory of literally lighting something on fire before kissing his mother on the cheek(she smiled reflexively) and dashing out the door while Pogo made harried noises. Luther didn’t leave, not for a long time, and she enjoyed it! She loved having a kid around, even if it was only one, and during those nine glorious years, she discovered how wonderful it was to have emotions! She was sad sometimes(her least favorite, really, but she relished it anyway), happy most of the time, and sometimes, sometimes! A little angry! It was a wonderful(ish) feeling, and she absolutely adored having emotions. Luther didn’t notice(he rarely noticed anything, but she forgave him and forgiveness! That was a wonderful feeling, too!) and then one day, he was injured, and she rushed him, and her feelings were pushed to the back of her mind, and she saved him, and watched with emotionless eyes as Reginald plunged the needle deep into his chest. A flicker of- upset, mayhaps? Anger? Sadness? She wasn’t sure- stirred in her chest cavity, and she grimaced slightly. Reginald barely spared her a glance, and she was slightly grateful. She didn’t want to share this, not just yet. 

And then, Luther left, and Grace was alone. She had nothing to do, so she paced- counted steps, paintings, floorboards, averaged how many times Reginald addressed her in a week. Not very many, she noted absently, when she sat in her usual chair and stared at her paintings. She frowned at the girl, whose clothing was draped across her so alluringly, and pondered why Reginald hadn’t given her a room. There was certainly space enough, and she came to the unfortunate conclusion that he simply did not care what she did or how she fared. With the conclusion, however, came a bit of freedom- she could do whatever she wanted, and he simply  _ would not care _ .

So, she decided to paint. She had no idea how to, of course, and she had no idea where she would get the paint, but she was going to do it anyway. The thought of it sparked a little glee- she had almost all of her emotions categorized at this point, written down very neatly in a little list in her ‘Miscellaneous” folder- and she smiled to herself and the painting. 

She asked Pogo first. He looked startled, but mumbled something about maybe being paints in the attic from when one of the kids tried painting. She smiled and watched as he scurried away, no doubt to tell Reginald about it. She arched a perfectly formed eyebrow and grinned a little broader, practically waltzing(but not really) up the stairs. She moved things around, very gently, and found a very dusty box full of oil paints. 

Diego stopped by, once or twice, in his leather(she felt amusement bubbling up under her central batteries, but declined to admit that to her favorite son) and he seemed startled to find her painting.

“Mom-” He had started, reaching out a hand to her nearly covered canvas(it was just a plank, but she could pretend). Grace had laughed and batted his hand away. 

“It’s still wet, don’t disturb it.” She said, her voice as carefully smooth as it always was. Diego gave her a slightly concerned look, and she laughed again. “Do you like it?”

The painting wasn’t her best, but she still enjoyed it. It was a portrait, of the children, running around on a Saturday(at 12:25pm, March 15th, 1997, the sky had been clear with a mild breeze. Sunset was at 7:34pm and dinner was mashed potatoes and a side of egg salad) through the foray and laughing. The bonus of having a photographic memory, she thought fondly.

“Mom…” Diego had said again, before pulling her into a tight hug. It would have been much too tight for a normal person, but Grace was happy to say she wasn’t a normal person. Or a person at all, but she declined to admit that to herself when she hugged him back. He was gone far too soon, and she returned to her painting with a pang of remorse before the colors and brush strokes melted away her sadness into delight.

The painting was covered in a dust cloth and added to Grace’s room of paintings, off the downstairs hallway in an empty room Reginald had forgotten. 

The stacks of paintings had grown, until everything came crashing down and Pogo had opened her control panel and turned off her emergency protocol. He didn’t need to turn it off entirely, she noted with mild annoyance, she had already shut off the part that dealt strictly with Reginald. She carried out her duties, however, turning the rest of the first aid protocol back on when Pogo had left her alone. He hadn’t even asked, she thought with more than mild annoyance. Twat.

(She was absolutely delighted to find the file of curse words, and implement them directly into her vocabulary. Saying fuck to herself while she was cooking was one of her greatest joys.)

Reginald died, she went on, and she had her children back(she was delighted!), and then Diego shut her off(she was upset and sad, but a little proud of him for getting his words out properly!) and then she woke up again. And Pogo told her to keep a secret, and she smiled and nodded and silently cursed him the  _ fuck _ out. As if he could tell her what to tell her children! Asshole! 

She painted a rather gorey painting that night, a very small one, of a head on a platter. If that head happened to look a bit like Reginald, well, that was certainly coincidence. She hid that one behind stacks and stacks of her earliest paintings. She noted with some surprise that she had improved, which she did not think was something that a robot could do! But she had learned painting, just as her children had learned how to walk and talk and run and fight! She was very proud. Maybe, just maybe, she thought to herself with a little thrill, she was becoming something more than just robot. Maybe, just maybe, she was becoming a little bit more  _ human _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> im @the-toadlet on tumblr come love me


End file.
